


Opens wide

by Tashilover



Category: Elementary, Outlast
Genre: Body Horror, Gore, Self-Harm, Violence on mental patients, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan was going to find out the truth. Even if it means her own death.</p><p> </p><p>A fusion with Outlast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those who don't know what Outlast is, here is a video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8ri1v8vTTM
> 
>  
> 
> Video is NSFW. It's very violent, very gory.

**Warning** : If you know what Outlast is, you know what kind to expect below. Please take heed.

 

 

 

Joan ducked into a bathroom stall, slamming the door behind her. The lock was your general, flimsy, slide-into-place latch, but Joan engaged it anyways. On the floor, seeping in from the other stall, was a puddle of blood. Bits of meat was mixed in, as well as a severed finger. Joan stepped around it as she backed away from the door, and sat down on the closed toilet seat lid.

She didn't realize she was still recording. She turned off her camera, and placed it down on her lap. Spots of blood were on her jeans. Her white sneakers were nearly stained red. Even her hands, though Joan had been extremely careful where she placed her hands, she saw she had blood underneath her fingernails. She'd barely been in here for an hour.

Joan wasn't prone to hysterical crying, but at the moment she could make an exception.

What the fuck was going on here? A week ago someone had sent her an anonymous tip telling her that the Mount Massive Asylum had been abusing their patients. God, Joan spent time volunteering here in her early twenties. She knew the doctors here were kind and gentle and the asylum had a strict policy against those who would do the patients harm. Joan had no plans of exposing the asylum to the public, but instead would gather evidence to show the board. That way, the asylum would avoid bad press and the people who needed help would get it.

She didn't expect this.

There was blood _everywhere_. On the walls, on the ceiling, giant pools of it smeared across the floor like someone had dumped an entire bucket in one spot. Victims looked like they've been torn apart by a wild animal. How many times had Joan stepped on a severed limb, nearly slipped on a pile of intestine? It was like a goddamn war zone in here. What the FUCK was happening?

Even worse... the few patients she had come across were something out of a nightmare. There was no question they've been abused. There's no question they've been _tortured_. Joan had only seen such injuries on those who've been burn victims. Prisoners of war. The patients here had their eyes gouged out. The second layer of their skin ripped off. Entire mouthfuls of teeth were gone- fingers, limbs, lips, hair, all of them gone. And it wasn't just the patients, the employees, doctors, the security all fell victim to this place. Not a person had been left untouched.

She tired talking to some of them. Most of them stared at her like she wasn't even there. Others ran away, a few tried to attack her. Nobody was coherent enough to talk.

Joan scrunched up her face and a few tears silently slipped out. She kept control, but just barely. How could something like this happen? There were over five hundred people here. How could five hundred fall victim to this and nobody else noticed?

Perhaps someone did notice. And like Joan, when they came to investigate, they were trapped. Perhaps the blood on the floor belonged to some poor family member who had come to visit.

Joan cradled her camera to her chest. She needed to get this information to the public. She needed to let the authorities know what was going on here. This was bigger than her, bigger than anything Joan has ever done.

God, she was so scared.

Despite the obvious signs of violence, the asylum was also unusually quiet. Occasionally she heard a patient screaming off in the distance, but it never lasted for long. The person always trailed off, out of breath, or were cut off in mid-scream.

So when footsteps came down the hallway, going towards the bathroom, Joan heard them perfectly. She thought they would pass, but the door opened with a soft squeak.

Joan held in her breath, clutch at her mouth with both hands to keep herself quiet. Only a few patients dared followed her and she had to hide to escape them. Go away, go away, go away...

There was a knock on her stall. "Miss, I know you're in there."

The voice was British. Very calm, very sober.

"I've seen you," said the man. "Wondering the halls of the asylum. I know you've seen what we've all been seeing. I also know you've been recording. It's quite a noble thing you're doing, but it's for naught."

Joan slowly lowered her hands. She took small, quiet breaths as she listened.

"Because you've barely scratched the surface. If you really want to represent us, if you really want to tell our story, you have to go deeper. You have to understand what it is going on here."

"I don't..." Joan had to pause to work saliva into her mouth. "I don't need the full story. I have enough to get the police here-"

The man suddenly struck the stall door, making Joan jump. The flimsy lock rattled but stayed in its place. "Don't be an _idiot_ ," he hissed. "All the bodies? All this blood? Comes from the police. I've seen men in full SWAT gear get torn apart. You bring more men here, they too will die horrific, bloody deaths."

"Then makes you think I won't be killed?"

"Because the Walrider seems to have a soft spot for the non-aggresive. ...Technically. He tends to go after those who wish him harm. There's no guarantee he won't kill you, but for now, you may be in his blind spot. I suggest to use that advantage to get as much information as you can. If you know what it is, then perhaps... you can stop it."

Joan undid the latch. Shaking, she opened the door to reveal the man standing on the other side.

Like the others, this man's second layer of skin had been ripped off his face, leaving him with massive scar tissue. Not even his own mother would be able to recognize him. One of his eyes were gone, leaving Joan to stare at his single, brown eye. His lips had been left alone, but they were severely chapped and peeling. No hair, and he wore the clothing of a patient. He stepped back from the stall as Joan emerged. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, sticking out a hand for her to shake.

He was missing his ring finger. It looked like something bit it off.

She shook his hand anyways. "Joan Watson," she said.

 

 

 

 

"Follow me," he said.

Joan hesitated. She didn't want to follow him. She didn't want to find out the deep, gory details of this Walrider. But she had promised herself and the poor people here she would find out the truth. She had to go all the way.

She raised up her camera and started recording. She was going to get everything.

"Who is the Walrider?"

"Not who, _what_ ," Sherlock said. "The Walrider is not a person. It may be controlled by a person, but it is mostly definitely not human."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I've seen it go through walls."

Sherlock passed by the gore without so much a flinch. Joan did her best to avoid it, though it was a futile effort. "Who are you, what's your name?" She asked as she stepped over a pile of intestines.

"I'm a patient," he said as if it was obvious. "My father sent me here for my drug addiction. I never left, as you can see."

"Your _father_ sent you to an _asylum_ for your drug addiction?"

"He had a odd sense of humor, I'll give you that. But the doctors here were kind and my father knew many of them. Now there are no doctors."

He gave no indication where he was going. He took random turns into random hallways, going through open offices and patient rooms. Judging from the way some of the furniture was piled up, Joan theorized some of the people here had tried to pull a last stand.

"Why do you... why do all the patients here look like-"

"Like they've personally seen hell?" Sherlock glanced back at her, giving the camera a good look at his scars. "We did this to ourselves."

Joan stopped. "What?"

Sherlock didn't turn away, and held up his hand, showing off his missing digit. "We all have our problems here. Ex-soldiers with PTSD. Suicides watches. People with depression, alzhemier's, hallucinations, the list goes on and on. But the Walrider... he did something to us. To all of us. Right now you find me most competent. Yesterday I spent an hour wallowing in my own filth because at the moment, I thought it was a good idea. Combine our losing minds with constant fear, hunger, and the smell of _blood_ wafting through the air, you would lose your mind too. I've never been prone to self-harm but... I don't know. I don't remember doing this to myself. That's why it's best we keep moving. Who knows how useful I'll be to you in another twenty minutes."

"The deaths," Joan said. "Were all of them caused by this... Walrider?"

"A lot of them were," said Sherlock. "Not all. Remember, some of the patients here were also criminals. I suggest you watch your back, Watson."

 

 

 

 

Joan never once paused in her recording except to change out the batteries. She didn't want to miss one thing. Sherlock not only uncovered much of the truth of the asylum, but he also showed her security footage of the massacre that took place.

Joan kept the camera up even as she looked away. She couldn't watch these men be tossed around like rag dolls, their bodies getting folded in half, then split down the middle.

"After everything you've seen today," Sherlock said, turning off the video. "You are still squeamish?"

"There's a difference between seeing a dead body and watching someone be murdered."

It was simply amazing Joan had not vomited yet. Sherlock was right. She had only been here for a few hours and already she wanted to lose her mind. The smell was driving her mad. "I'm still amazed this place has electricity."

"The asylum has its own generator, but not every section has electricity. Whole areas are without it- oh god."

"What?"

Sherlock was watching the security screen. On it, two men, two very _naked_ men walked down the hallway towards the security office. They were only a few feet away. "It's the twins," Sherlock hissed. He suddenly grabbed Joan by the arm, and pulled her to the personal lockers by the walls. " _Don't speak_ ," he said to her, opening the locker door and pushing her inside. The locker was big enough for her, but not for him too. " _Try not to breath. If they find you, they'll kill you_."

He closed the locker. Through the gaps, Joan watched as Sherlock curled up on the floor. He began rocking back and forth just as the door to the room was violently shoved open.

The hinges on the poor door broke, and it hanged for a brief second before it fell noisily to the floor. "I smell _cunt_ ," said one of the twins. "She's been here."

"You," the other snapped, pointing to Sherlock. "Did you see where the woman go?"

"Can't sleep," Sherlock muttered over and over again. "Can't sleep, can't sleep, can't sleep..."

"Oi! I asked you a damn question!"

The twin kicked out, slamming his foot right into Sherlock's stomach. Joan nearly dropped her camera in response, her own stomach lurching at the sight. Sherlock gave a groan and curled into a ball, his arms clutching his midsection. He was still muttering away in a pained, breathless tone.

"Fuck 'im," said the other twin. "Bitch's probably long gone. Let's go."

Once they left, Joan quietly came out of the locker. "Oh god," she whispered, kneeling down to Sherlock. He stopped muttering, but he was still holding himself gingerly. "Oh god, what do they want with me?"

"They want to eat you," Sherlock wheezed. "Literally. I've seen them... do things to others here. They're monsters, even before the Walrider twisted their minds. If you see them, run. Drop everything and run."

 

 

 

 

 

At some point, Joan collapsed.

She couldn't handle it. All this pain, all this horror, it was a miracle she lasted this long. Seeing the room filled to the top with _bodies_ was her breaking point. Once they were out of the basement, Joan stumbled, and sunk to the floor. Her body refused to get up again.

"I can't," she said as Sherlock prompted her to get back up. "I can't, I can't, I can't..."

Good god, she was going insane. No wonder nobody was able to escape from here. She was going to die here and nobody was going to find her.

Sherlock's hands left her, and Joan thought he would abandon her. She wouldn't blame him, why would he put so much effort behind someone who gave up half way through? When was the last time she replaced a battery in her camera? An hour?

Sherlock didn't leave. Off to the side there was an overturned soda vending machine. Though the front portion of it had been severely smashed, the lights were still on. It took Sherlock only a few seconds to jimmy the door open. He took out a Pepsi, and handed it over to Joan. "Here," he said. "The sugar will help."

She took it, grateful to find it cold. "Thank you..." She pressed the can to her temple, relishing the coolness against her skin.

"Drink it," Sherlock said.

Joan opened the Pepsi, carefully taking a few sips. "I'm actually more of a Sprite kind of gal."

"I like Coke," Sherlock grunted, getting down on the floor with her. He pulled Joan's camera over, taking out the old battery and replacing it with a new one. He held the camera out for Joan to take.

She took it back, but didn't turn it on. "Have there been many others like me? I can't be the only one who came here looking for answers."

Sherlock lowered his arm. "There has been others. Those who came with guns were killed almost instantly. The ones who didn't... never made it back out."

"Then what makes me so special? Why are you risking your life to help me?"

Sherlock raised his hand. He ran the edge of his fingers over his scarred, jagged skin. "Not much of a life to really save," he said as one finger ghosted over the empty hole of his eye. "But if I hide to save my life, then what has my life been for? There has got to be something we're all willing to die for, Watson. And _this_ ," he leaned over and tapped the camera twice with his finger. "Is worth dying for."

"As for you..." he continued, getting up. He reached out with a hand. Joan took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. "I don't know why I find you so... inspirational. In the past few hours I have spent with you, I admit I am calmer. My mind clearer. Perhaps in time I'll find out why that is."

He smiled at her.

Joan smiled back. She took a breath, brought the camera back up and started recording again. "Okay, let's go see this Walrider."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to come back to this.
> 
> Warning: Self-harm, misogyny

"How long are you going to read those?"

Throughout the the asylum, there were patient files thrown about carelessly. Joan ignored most of them, but curiosity got the better of her. She grabbed them, carried them with her, and once she and Sherlock found a safe spot (an empty employee changing room) she sat down and read through them.

Every so often when she saw something worthwhile, she took a picture of it. "I've been noticing patterns. Look," she said, passing one file over to Sherlock.

"This is one of the file patients," he said, looking it over with his one good eye. "There were over a thousand people working here before it went to hell. Why does this one particular patient stand out?"

"This person was suffering from depression. But the medicine they were giving him, you see here?" The pointed it out to him. "They're not designed to fight depression. Taking these two medications would have made it worse. And here?" She pulled up another file to show him. "This patient had encephalitis. The medication they gave her would have only strengthen the symptoms, cause massive hallucinations-"

"They were purposely making the patients worse," Sherlock concluded. He threw down the files in disgust. "Those bastards."

He stepped away, cupping a hand over his mouth as his breathing sped up.

"Sherlock?"

"Those bastards," Sherlock said again. "These people came here for help. These people _needed_ help and they... all of them were in on it. Every single one. I can't..."

He stumbled to a corner and started dry heaving. Joan wanted to offer him water, but they haven't found a clean source since they've been in here. Everything was either soaked in blood or destroyed beyond use.

Sherlock swallowed and croaked out, "Bastards... this entire time I thought this was my fault. My eye, my lost of time, I thought it was because of my drug abuse. What else did they do to me? I can't remember. I can't remember. I can't..."

He started slapping himself in the head with the heel of his hand. They weren't gentle taps; every blow was audible, striking so hard his head jerked.

Joan stepped forward and grasped his arm. "Stop, stop. Hurting yourself won't help."

Without warning, Sherlock pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. For a startling second Joan went stiff, afraid he meant to hurt her.

He held her firm, not hurting her, and buried his face into the crook of her neck. He was crying.

" _I'm sorry,_ " he sobbed. Joan didn't know what he was apologizing for. " _I'm so sorry_."

He was so much taller than her. His arms were thick with muscle. If he wanted, he could easily squeeze and snap her spine like dry wood, but as Joan stood there, he felt small. Joan quietly touched the back of his bald head, and that simple, gentle touch made him only cry harder. In a world of violence, it was the softness that broke him.

Joan let him cry as long as he needed. God only knew how much he needed it.

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock was quiet for next ten minutes.

Joan didn't mind. She was too busy keeping the camera up, recording as much as she could. Her right arm was killing her. She thought she would only be here for an hour. How long has it been? She looked at her watch. Seven hours now. God, it felt like years.

Worse, it felt like they were going nowhere. There were so many doors, so many hallways. When she interned here, the asylum wasn't this big, wasn't this confusing. It didn't help they were forced through so many detours. So many doors were barred shut, while entire hallways were blocked by debris. Literally not a single inch had been left spared.

Joan stopped in her tracks. "I think we need help."

Sherlock frowned at her.

"This place is too big. We don't know where we are, we don't know where we're going-"

"Then we need a map," said Sherlock, pushing past her.

"I think we need to talk to someone."

"You want to _talk to someone?_ Have you forgotten half of the patients here will _eat your face_ if given the chance? No, we keep to ourselves."

"Was there anybody here, Sherlock, that you trusted? Another patient? Someone we can talk to?"

"That doesn't matter because they're probably already dead. We keep moving."

"Was there anyone?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. He let out a long, suffering sigh, his shoulders dramatically drooping with the force of it. "Maybe, I don't know. There was one patient. He had delusions. He thought he could talk to Jesus. But, uh, he did have followers. He called himself Father Martin."

"You think we can trust him?"

"Probably. As far as delusions went, he was pretty harmless."

"Where do you think we could find him?"

"Near the chapel. In that direction." Sherlock pointed. "But I fear our trek getting to him. Getting to him will be just as hard."

"Geeze, then there's no point, is there? You know, I used to intern here back in my twenties. Long before this place became... like this. The asylum was big, but now it's like a maze. Were they purposely building the halls like this? The twisting and the winding...?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. He suddenly smiled. "Watson," he breathed. "You're a genius!"

"I-"

"My god, I never even questioned it! Either I'm an idiot or I'm more crazy than I thought! Watson... it was on purpose."

"What? How they built the asylum?"

"Think about it! Even the Tower of London has its closet skeletons, its little corridors to hide the more ugly secrets. This whole time I thought they were hiding the abuse, but now I know they were hiding the Walrider. This asylum? It's a front. A slaughterhouse for their experimentation. The real building is hidden somewhere. Deep below, perhaps. All we need... we need to find where the new parts of the building intersect with the old. From there, we can track down their lair."

Joan looked away, her expression dark. Sherlock's enthusiasm slowly died. "What's wrong?"

"I... fuck," Joan said, rubbing a hand over her eyes. "When I came here, I meant to do an investigation story on the accusations of abusive doctors. With the Walrider, with... everything else... there were over five thousand people here, Sherlock. And those people were  _accounted_ for. And as I wandered through the halls, I kept asking myself, why was I the only one investigating this? Where are these people's families? Over five thousand people are missing and nobody's notice! That's probably why no one else has escaped from here, or why the media hasn't heard a word- they were silenced. It won't matter how much information I get, it won't matter if we find the root cause to all of this. The moment I leave those doors, they'll kill me."

"I won't let them!" Sherlock hissed. He stepped forward and grasped her tightly by the arms, the move startling her so much she nearly dropped the camera. "I am making you a promise here and now, Watson. You will live to see tomorrow. I'll see to that. My life for yours."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't try to talk me out of it, I've already made up my mind. I have a few connections on the outside who can help us pass this information along. Once we get out of here, we'll go to them and expose this godforsaken place to the world."

She knew he meant every word. Forget the blood, forget the horrors, she felt like she was going to war. Joan has found herself in a few dangerous positions before, but never to a point where she decided it was a cause worth dying for, worth killing for.

Never in her life has someone made such a declaration towards her.

She opened her mouth, perhaps to agree with him or try to change his mind- she didn't know. At that moment, there was a sharp sound of an object being swung through the air, a dull thunk, and Sherlock fell to the floor, unconscious.

Joan stumbled back.

Out from the darkness, standing behind Sherlock was a man holding a long metal pipe. He was dressed in a vest and a long sleeved white shirt splattered with blood. He had slicked black hair, and it looked like his eyes were glowing. Unlike Sherlock, this man had all his facial features. He wasn't missing his fingers, he had no burns, no scars, and yet he was the scariest thing Joan has ever seen here.

"Darling..." the man cooed softly, dropping the metal pipe. It fell to the floor with a large echoing clang. He stepped over Sherlock's body towards Joan, his blood-stained hands stretched out to her. "Did he hurt you?"

Sherlock wasn't moving. It was too dark to see if he was breathing. "I... he didn't hurt me," Joan said, moving back. "He's my friend."

"Your _friend_?" The man sneered. "Women can't be friends with men. Men only want one thing: those nasty cunts. Now, come along, love. We're going to be late."

He held out one hand to her.

Panic rose in Joan, and she kept looking back down at Sherlock, unsure what to do. The man was taller than her, his hands big and arms thick. He would have no problem overpowering her.

"Come along, _dear_ ," the man repeated, his tone now more threatening. "We're going to be late."

Sherlock suddenly groaned.

"Sherlock," Joan breathed, taking an aborted step forward.

"R-run..." Sherlock bit out, struggling to move. "Run!"

The man growled and threw himself forward, both arms stretched out to grab Joan. Joan ducked, twisted, and started running as fast as her legs could take her.

"COME BACK HERE, YOU BITCH!" The man screamed from behind, giving chase. "YOU'RE JUST GOING TO MAKE ME ANGRY!"

Joan didn't dare slow down. She didn't even know where she was going. The majority of the hallways were long and opened, allowing her to run in a straight line. When she encountered a barricade, she quickly ducked into the nearest opened room. She jumped over gurneys, tables, through the open broken window frames of offices.

"YOU'RE ONLY GOING TO MAKE THIS HARDER ON YOURSELF!"

No matter what she did, he was still on her. She tried to keep a mental map of where she was going, but it was impossible. Left, right, left, left, right, down, down, up, left, right.

Joan turned a corner and- BAM! She was struck from the side, knocking her down to the floor. Her camera skittered across, disappearing under a table. Joan twisted on her elbows, staring up at the man with the horrifying eyes.

He tapped the metal pipe against his palm. "Now darling, is that any way to treat your betrothed?"

He brought the pipe down sharply across Joan's head.


End file.
